


Prelude

by pyrchance



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Homelessness, M/M, Pre-Band
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26332372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrchance/pseuds/pyrchance
Summary: “Where should I go?”“That’s up to you. Please don’t ask me a thing like that. You did this to yourself.”“I didn’t mean to,” he lies. Then, because he wants to hurt her, he says, “I won’t come back this time.”Something in his mother’s face loosens. “I know.”-Or, Brendon gets kicked out of his home too early and the band is composed of strangers.
Relationships: Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie
Comments: 43
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

Being thrown to the wolves is not so hard the second time.

“Mom,” Brendon says. His mother flinches.

“Yes?”

“Where should I go?”

“That’s up to you. Please don’t ask me a thing like that. You did this to yourself.”

“I didn’t mean to,” he lies. Then, because he wants to hurt her, he says, “I won’t come back this time.”

Something in his mother’s face loosens. “I know.”

She gently shuts the door. Brendon hefts the backpack she’d watched him pack and steps off the front porch. It’s lighter than when he’d left for school that morning. Exchanging textbooks for clothing and toiletries will do that.

He has his cellphone. He still has most of his minutes for this month. He doubts his dad will preemptively cancel it. That isn’t really his parents’ style.

They aren’t mad at him exactly, he knows. There is no malicious intent against him. They never had a real fight. No one yelled or threw things.

Brendon’s just messed it all up. He had chosen not to act like a member of their faith, of their family, so he wasn’t one. His mom had even reminded him to pack a thicker coat, in case he got cold. His family wasn’t cruel. Brendon just wasn’t welcome among them.

He walks down the block a little bit so his mom won’t feel bad if she’s watching from the window. He already regrets what he said to her. He didn’t mean it. He’d do anything for her to open that door again and tell him he’s forgiven.

She doesn’t. He keeps walking.

He’ll be fine. Of course, he’ll be fine. It isn’t like he hasn’t done this before, sort of.

Granted, last time there _had_ been fighting and his mom had cried when Brendon had stormed out of the house and his father had taken the lock off of his door when one of his sisters finally found him loitering near his middle school after a weekend spent on a buddy’s couch and brought him home.

Brendon had promised his parents that he didn’t mean it. That it had been a mistake looking up those things on the computer. That he’d been dared and tricked and stupid. He was lying, but that didn’t matter. It just mattered that his parents had believed him and nodded and pet his head and brought him home.

This time, the lie is too big. Brendon’s mistake was not trying to swallow it anyway. There’s no older sisters around to come and find him now. His mom is the one shutting the door neatly behind him.

Brendon will be fine. It’s different, yes, but it isn’t as though he never thought about what might happen. It is almost a relief, to have the worse thing he ever dreamt of come true. Maybe now his dreams will be better.

So he has his phone and some clothes and his savings account. That’s a start.

Now he just needs to figure out who to call.

*

He walks to the nearest taco stand, orders a burrito, and mentally sorts through his list of friends as he sits on a sticky plastic chair and eats.

His church friends are out, obviously. So are most of the guys he’s played sports with, if what they talk about in the locker room is any indication. Those are Brendon’s two largest social groups.

The problem is, Brendon has spent so long trying to be the son his parents want, he’d avoided the people most likely to help him now. It isn’t that Brendon doesn’t know any people like him. There was this girl—he’s pretty sure she’s a girl, at least; she wore skirts some days but once shaved her head—anyway, there was this girl on the volleyball team freshman year that he thought might be like him. There was also that senior from last year who barely spoke, but who once said thank you to Brendon in a really high voice when he let him jump the lunch line. So Brendon’s seen other people that are probably like him, but there’s no one he knows that he could call up for help now.

He doesn’t have a best friend. Brendon’s always cast a wide net with big holes. He knows a lot of people and people tend to like him, but he doesn’t really spend time with any particular group outside of school or church. People like him best in small doses.

The thought crosses his mind that there is probably a shelter for people like him, but that seems extreme. It isn’t like his parents have left him with nothing. He’s still got a few hundred dollars in his savings account and he knows his grandparents left him some money in a trust for school that he’ll get once he turns eighteen. He reminds himself that he’s going to be eighteen in April. It’s just September now, but that’s not too far off. He’s was practically going to be on his own soon anyway. All this is just a few months ahead of schedule.

He thinks maybe, if he does okay on his own, if he shows his parents that part of himself won’t stop him from being a good person, a good student and son, just maybe they’ll take him back. It’s a thought Brendon doesn’t know if he believes but clings to.

*

There is one more option.

The band. His band, sort of.

See, back in August Brendon had been invited to audition for this band that this kid, Brent from his guitar class, was a part of. Brent had texted him saying that he was in, and he’d gone to his first band practice last weekend, but neither of the other two guys seemed to like him very much.

They were just playing cover songs mostly. Spencer had gotten annoyed when Brendon got bored and asked to play around a bit on his drum kit, kicking him off of the stool and then not moving from his spot for the rest of the night. Worse was Ryan, the de facto leader of the group. He hadn’t said a word to Brendon the whole time that wasn’t a critique of his tuning or his tempo or his improvisations. Even Brent had seemed sort of ticked off when Brendon pointed out an error on his bass tabs. Given how lackluster everyone’s reactions to him had been, Brendon had sort of assumed he was no longer in the band.

Still, a lot of musicians were sort of that type right? Brendon had done his research, way back when everything first started changing. Brendon even thought that Ryan guy might be. Not that it, like, mattered or anything.

It is worth a shot at least.

*

Brent’s room is blue and small and messy, but he’s got a blow-up mattress and extra blankets and his parents seem happy to have Brendon stay for dinner.

“Thanks for letting me crash, man,” Brendon says, once he’s borrowed Brent’s toothpaste (he forgot to pack his own) and they’re settling in for bed. Brendon’s head is quite close to pile of dirty clothes stacked near Brent’s dresser. He turns his eyes away from a pair of stained, grey socks and stares up at the popcorn ceiling.

“Sure,” Brent yawns. Brendon doesn’t know Brent that well, so he’s not quite sure if he means that until Brent adds, “Parents are the worst. Sorry yours are being dicks.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says.

Brent rolls over, mattress squeaking, and smiles at him in the darkness. “You’ve got balls, just walking out and leaving. My mom would probably skin me. My dad would _definitely_ kick my ass. How mad do you think yours are? Do you think they’re panicking yet?”

Brendon thinks probably his parents probably ate the nice casserole his mom was making for dinner and retired early to bed for work the next morning. He doubts they’ve told his sisters yet; probably won’t until Thanksgiving when they all come home from school. He doesn’t know how to say all that though, so he just says, “Probably.”

“Well, whatever. Screw ‘em,” grunts Brent. “What’d you guys fight about anyway?”

“Nothing.” There wasn’t a fight. Not really. Brendon had just forgotten how important it was to lie. “I just did something stupid.”

“I hear that.”

Brent holds his fist out for a bump. Brendon is very glad Brent is all the way up on his bed and his room is very dark. He’s not sure what his face is doing right now, but it feels hot and twisty.

“Just call them in the morning,” Brent advises sagely, rolling back onto his back. “I’m sure they’ll forgive whatever it was once they know you’re okay. That’s how parents work.”

That’s not how Brendon’s parents work. Maybe it used to be, back in middle school when the differences in Brendon weren’t settled yet, but it’s not now. It is nice of Brent to say though.

When Brent’s breathing evens out, Brendon stares up at the unfamiliar shapes on the ceiling and thinks. He tells himself he isn’t worried. And he’s not. Not really. Not yet.

But he dreams and he was wrong. His dreams aren’t any better, they’re worse.

*

Brent’s a good dude. Even though they weren’t super close before all this, when the rumors about Brendon finally start to leak sometime around Thursday (no doubt spread after Brendon doesn’t show up for Wednesday night service with his family) Brent still lets Brendon sit with him at lunch even though he must be getting sick of him. He lets Brendon sleep on his floor in his bedroom, even though the rumors aren’t subtle. He does start to change in the bathroom though.

Brent’s family lets him stay almost for the whole week before his welcome begins to wears thin.

That’s okay though. Brendon was expecting it. He gets busy.

He knows he still needs to graduate. He’s a senior, so the end is near. He understands how important it is to have that degree, even if he usually only scrapes by with Cs and comments on his report cards to pay attention. He sort of regrets leaving his textsbooks back home, but at the time he needed the room and was on a time limit. If he’s honest, he misses his guitar and keyboard more—which he definitely _does_ regret leaving, even if he knows he had to.

He tries to give Brent as much space as he can by staying after school and doing his home work in the library with borrowed textbooks. It’s a good plan. After the first three days, once Brent begins talking to him only in clipped sentences and his mom begins side-eyeing him, Brendon leaves the school grounds only after he knows Brent’s family is done with dinner. He eats junk from the local fast food joints and hopes they barely notice him when he quietly retreats up to Brent’s room.

He knows it’s not sustainable.

Brent’s mom looks really sorry for him on Saturday night when she asks him once again if he’s called his parents yet. Brendon smiles at her and lies and promises her that he will, and then goes up to Brent’s room and packs up his backpack.

Brent looks annoyed to see him in his room, until he sees what Brendon is doing.

“You’re leaving?”

Brendon nods. “Thanks for letting me stay. And for, you know, at school. I really appreciate it.”

For the first time in a few days, Brent doesn’t look irritated with him. He nods his head, smiling a real smile and stepping in to help Brendon find his stuff. “Of course, man. I mean, I’m not going to lie. It’s going to be nice to have my room back. But I’m happy you worked things out with your parents.”

Brendon just nods along to that. He stops by Brent’s bathroom when he leaves, tucking a spare tube of toothpaste into his bag and feeling like a thief on top of a liar. It’s always been hard for Brendon to be good though. It’s easy to push aside the bad feeling in favor of his own selfish needs.

Brent offers to give him a ride home, but Brendon shrugs him off. He gets a hug from Brent as he’s walking out the door—the bro kind that involves a lot of thumping with one arm. It’s more than Brendon was expecting.

“See you at band practice!” Brent chirps, as Brendon steps away.

This is the first time Brent has mentioned the band since Brendon’s been here. He stumbles a little bit down Brent’s front steps and knows he looks stupid when he whips around.

“What?”

“The band, dude.”

“I—Sorry, when is that happening again?”

Brent laughs at him. “Don’t you read your email? Spencer sent out a reminder days ago. I can pick you up if you want. We’re meeting at his place at five.”

“Tomorrow?” Brendon asks, almost breathless.

“Yeah, dude.” Brent smiles at him again. “You think you can make it? I know your parents are probably pissed.”

His parents probably would be if they knew, or cared. They never did approve of his music tastes.

“I’ll be there,” Brendon promises.

He means it too.

*

He spends the night on the floor of some kid he played little league with. Jason doesn’t go to the same high school as him, but they still see each other occasionally. He’s surprised when Brendon asks to hang out, but pleasantly, not like he’s suspicious or anything.

It’s a weekend night. They play video games in Jason’s bedroom until Jason falls asleep drooling on his bed. Brendon honestly wanted to go to sleep hours ago, but he hadn’t wanted to seem weird. Brendon hasn’t asked, technically, to spend the night, but the whole house is quiet now and Brendon doesn’t think they’ll mind.

He borrows a pillow from the couch downstairs and sleeps with his jacket on. Jason’s house is warm. His room has carpet. Brendon doesn’t really care that he misses Brent’s air mattress—misses his bed. He has something to look forward to and that makes all the difference.

He’ll do just about anything if it means getting to tomorrow.

*

The thing is, Brendon loves music more than God.

Or maybe it’s just that music is his God. Or is how he feels God. Or how God speaks to him.

Brendon knows his foundation of faith is a shaky one at best and thoughts like these only drill more holes but—

But—

Brendon doesn’t really know how to finish that thought. He just knows that there seems to be something on the other side of it he doesn’t know how to name.

Jason’s dad makes pancakes in the morning. He asks about Brendon’s family and makes small talk reminiscing about their old baseball team. Jason’s family is part of the church too, but they belong to a different ward. Brendon doesn’t think his luck will hold out much longer and knows this’ll probably the last time he’s invited in. It’s been a week since Brendon left. Rumors spread quick on Sundays.

Brendon has a few hours before it’s time to make his way to Spencer’s. He realizes he never actually told Brent he needed a ride last night and texts him to ask if he can pick Brendon up at the mall. It’s the best place Brendon knows to kill time.

This turns out to be a brilliant idea anyway. Brendon’s been thinking about getting a job. He’s not old enough to rent an apartment yet, but he’s thinking it’d be a good idea to save up enough for a security deposit. Things will look different at eighteen.

There’s a help wanted sign in a smoothie shop that he passes during his trek to the mall. Brendon knows he can be charming. He smiles as he fills out the application, flirts a little with the girl behind the counter, and has an interview scheduled for two days later.

It’s enough that Brendon spends a bit of his savings to watch a movie in the mall, buying an armful of extra candy he dumps into Brent’s lap when he climbs in his car.

“Payment for last week,” Brendon announces, practically vibrating as he sits down.

Brent laughs, picks up a box of Mike and Ike’s, and takes off. Brendon rips open the chocolates, feeling already happier than he has all week.

*

“Where’s your guitar?” is the first thing Ryan Ross says to him when they come into Spencer’s garage.

“Oh, um—” Brent is looking at Brendon too and Brendon knows he can’t just say he forgot to take it; that he was so nervous with the way his mom was barely looking at him he hadn’t thought about it at all. “Sorry. My parents have it.”

“Then why are you here?” asks Ryan.

Brendon’s good mood evaporates. He looks around the garage. Spencer’s at his drum kit, Brent’s got his bass in hand, Ryan has an electric guitar draped over his neck. Brendon’s the only one standing around like an idiot with nothing to do.

Thank God for Brent.

Brendon feels an arm get slung around his shoulder as Brent says, “Lay off, man. Brendon’s had a shit week. We’re lucky his parents even let him out to practice at all.”

Ryan’s eyes shift to Brent. Ryan has this blank face thing going for him, but his eyes are discontent and stormy. “He can’t practice without a guitar.”

Brent shrugs. “So let him use yours.”

This is a bad suggestion. Ryan’s fingers curl around the neck of his instrument like Brendon’s going to rip it out of his hands.

“Why don’t I just do the backing vocals?” Brendon offers quickly, throwing a smile at Brent to let him know his efforts were appreciated, but mostly watching the way color slowly bleeds back into Ryan’s fingertips.

“You can sing?” Ryan asks. His mouth tips down doubtfully.

“I mean, a little?” Brendon used to be in the church choir. Sometimes he sang along when he played his piano or guitar, just for fun, or in the shower and in the car. Nothing serious. He thinks he sounds okay though.

“Fine,” Ryan mutters. He walks off to go talk to Spencer, who’s fiddling his drum sticks looking bored. Brent squeezes Brendon’s shoulder and goes to plug his bass in, leaving Brendon standing awkwardly near the door with his hands empty.

Maybe he should get a tambourine, Brendon thinks, as the rest of the guys tune up and the hum of their cheap amps kicks on. Brendon rubs the callouses on his fingers, glad to feel them still there. He needs to get his guitar before they disappear.

As much as Ryan is a bit uptight, he’s also as eager to get into the music as Brendon. So far, they’ve just played covers. Brent told Brendon before he auditioned that Ryan was something of a song writer, but Brendon hasn’t heard any of it yet. It’s not like it really matters. Music is music and Blink-182 songs rock and Brendon bobs his head and sings under Ryan and tries not to think about the fact that he doesn’t have a mic or any idea how to get his guitar.

Practice goes for over two hours. Brendon is sweaty and grinning by the end of it. He stays in his spot to the right of Ryan’s mic and tucks his hands into his pockets between songs. It works. Maybe it’s just because Brendon isn’t actually playing anything this time but no one snaps at him.

Brent announces his departure first—he’s got a date with his girlfriend apparently—and Brendon waves off his ride offer. It’s getting sort of dark outside and Brendon is only just now surfacing from the elation of making music enough to realize he doesn’t have a plan for tonight yet.

He can’t exactly pull the same trick he pulled at Jason’s on Spencer. They hardly know each other. Ryan is even more out of the question. Brendon’s still frowning thinking about it when Spencer’s mom marches in and tells Spencer to get ready for dinner.

“That was good,” Spencer says, swiping an arm under his bangs. “I think we sounded almost not terrible.”

“That’s generous,” Ryan mutters, but he’s sort of smiling too. “We still suck.”

Spencer grins back. “Yeah, but we suck a little less now, I think. Remember when we sounded like dying cats? God, remember when your voice used to _crack_?”

“Are you ever going to stop reminding me?”

“You sounded like your balls were shrinking.”

They’re talking mostly to each other, like they usually do, but the conversation makes Brendon smile.

“This was fun,” he chimes in. He’s still got his hands in his pockets, he’s still standing on his spot in the garage, but he’s bouncing a bit on his toes, unable to keep completely still. “Thanks for letting me join. I mean, thanks again. I know we already had one practice but, I don’t know, I had fun.”

Spencer and Ryan both blink at him like they forgot he was there. Brendon wonders if maybe he missed a hint when Brent left. Maybe he was meant to go to.

Then Spencer’s face relaxes and he nods. “Yeah, same here. You sounded good, by the way. I could barely here you over my drums, but you should sing back up more. What do you think Ryan?”

“We don’t have a second mic,” Ryan says frowning, but not really frowning _at_ Brendon. It’s an improvement.

“Oh, I don’t need one,” Brendon hurries to say. “I mean, this was just because I don’t have my guitar. Which I promise I will have next time. Sorry. Which—when is next time, exactly?”

“Sunday, same time,” Spencer returns.

“Okay. Cool, cool.” Brendon tries not to think that on any other week he’d still be at church sitting in the men’s study group this time on Sunday. He always sort of liked the group, even when normal services were boring. It was nice sitting in a circle with his father, studying the same passages, talking about the same issues, like they were both men.

Spencer catches something on Brendon’s face. He cocks his head. “Didn’t you get my email? I asked for good meeting times from the rest of the guys. I was wondering because you’re the only one that didn’t respond.”

“Oh, right! Sure, sure,” Brendon nods quickly. He hasn’t touched the internet since he left home. The school computers block MySpace and LiveJournal so there hadn’t seem much point. He adds that to his to do list. “Sorry. I’ll check it again.”

“If you’re busy Sundays, we can move it,” Spencer says.

Brendon rapidly shakes his head, insisting, “No, no. I’m good. Sundays are fine.”

The air grows a bit awkward. Spender wonders how Brent had sold him to these guys for the audition. If Brent had mentioned Brendon’s ‘crazy Mormon family’ the way he’s heard some others do who are outside of the church.

“Okay, cool,” says Spencer. Somehow this does not make things any less awkward. A long pauses stretches between them. “So,” Spencer finally drawls, “see you next week?”

It’s then that Brendon’s remembers that Spencer’s mom literally _just_ told them it was time for dinner. He’s overstaying his welcome, again. He probably was supposed to leave with Brent and now he’s made Spencer to do the awkward task of asking him to go home after Brendon’s worked so hard to not get on anyone’s nerves this time.

He smiles when he gets it; picks up his backpack and slings it over his shoulders and tries to break the awkwardness with a shrug.

“Right. See you then,” he says.


	2. Chapter 2

Brendon wakes up to someone shaking his shoulder.

He starts, but the bus driver lets go of him quickly, holding her gloved hands up. “We’re almost to the end of my line,” she says.

Brendon sits up, blinking around blearily and realizing the bus around him is empty. The streetlights are on outside. He recognizes the background outside as somewhere downtown. He doesn’t know exactly how he got there, just that there was a bus stop a few blocks from Spencer’s house and he had change in his pocket and nowhere else to go.

“What time is it?” he asks.

“Just past eleven. I would have gotten you up sooner, but I didn’t see you back here. Do you have someone you can call?”

It’s eleven at night on a Sunday. Brendon has school in the morning and a sour taste in his stomach that tells him all he’s eaten today were pancakes and candy. It’s too late to call anyone. Even if he did, he doesn’t know anyone who lives this far downtown.

The bus driver seems to read all this on his face. “You better get off here. The bus garage isn’t the safest spot. I can give you a little change for a payphone if you need it.”

“Oh! No, I’m fine,” says Brendon quickly. “I’ve got a cell. Thank you.”

She seems relieved to hear it. The bus doors hiss open as she lets him off and he steps out into the light of a gas station and waves as she takes off.

He looks around. He doesn’t know exactly where he is, but he knows it’s nowhere close to home. There’s a strip mall on the other side of the street, a few fast food restaurants lighting up the asphalt, and a crummy Chevron next to the bus stop. The loudest thing is the roar of the freeway nearby.

Brendon doesn’t know what to do. Being on an unfamiliar street this late a night makes him nervous. The awareness that he has no where to go creeps up on him slowly, but when it sinks in the realization digs its hooks in deep. Brendon fights to keep his breathing even as he walks quickly away from the bus stop. The last thing he wants to do is look lost.

He walks past a Taco Bell. The drive-thru is open but the lobby is closed. Brendon is sticky with sweat from band practice which has dried cool on his skin. He takes a moment under the light of the neon signs to pull out his jacket from his backpack, then keeps on walking. He’s too afraid to lose the bus stop completely, but he can’t just stay there waiting until morning.

Three blocks later, Brendon spots the Denny’s lit up in a familiar orange glow. The lights are jarring as he walks in, but he summons a smile for the older lady who walks him to a booth and orders a coffee to calm down his shaking hands.

The dining room is open 24/7. Brendon orders a burger first, and then a second order of fries, and a third cup of coffee. Brendon’s too nervous to sit there without food in front of him, so he just keeps ordering every time the waitress returns. Brendon rests his head on his fist but doesn’t sleep, wishes he even had his math textbook for something to distract himself with, and eventually reads and rereads every piece of the menu including all the nutrition facts.

His sick with grease and caffeine by the time he finally asks for the check, and then he’s sick for a whole different reason. But it’s just before 5am when he leaves the diner, which means when he makes his way slowly back to the bus stop (holding is stomach as it cramps around his poor decisions) there are busses running to pick him up.

He squints at the tiny map on the bus stop and gets on the one he hopes will take him closest to school. It does, but the whole trip only takes about forty minutes. Brendon closes his eyes and presses his head against the glass, letting the bus carry him on a round trip that eats up the minutes and lets him catch a sliver of sleep.

He finally stumbles off the bus around 7am, when the very first of his classmates appear on campus. Brendon changes his shirt into something he wore last week, but hasn’t been sweated in yet. He hasn’t even thought about laundry.

It’s been over one week since Brendon was kicked out of home. Last night, he realizes, is the first night he’s ever spent without a roof over his head.

There’s a pit in his stomach that tells him it might not be the last one.

*

Brendon gets hired at the smoothie shop. To be completely honest, he probably shouldn’t have, but Chloe, the assistant manager of the shop, is the one who interviewed him and she is only a few years older than him and even though Brendon is dead tired and probably not looking his best she seems to like the way he smiled at her.

He gets the morning shifts on the weekends and two days after school. His training day is the very next day. It’s straight minimum wage but if he gets any tips he only has to split them with one other person. Brendon takes him the paperwork and writes out the address to his parents’ house and tries not to panic when he realizes he has no idea where his social security card and birth certificate are. He’s never had a job before. He knows with a sinking suspicion he’s going to have to go home and ask for them.

He still has a key to the house. He wonders if it wouldn’t be better to just sneak in and out. He wonders if they would have thought to change the locks.

It’s a problem for another day. Right now, Brendon just leaves the interview with his paperwork and faces the looming onslaught of nighttime. He can’t spend another night without sleeping. The greasy food combined with basically no sleep has left his stomach in painful knots all day. Brendon gets far enough away from the smoothie shop to sit down and pull out his cellphone.

It’s the last week of September. He’s still got full bars when he checks his service.

Brendon scrolls through his contacts. Somehow, the list only seems to be getting shorter. In the cafeteria today at school he’d seen a girl from his church literally gawk at him, as if she’d never seen him before. He wonders how his parents explained his absence on Sunday, or if rumors of his defect have already flooded the congregation.

On a whim of some terrible impulse, he goes through his contacts and deletes every one of them that belongs to the church. It leaves his list half its original size, but he can breathe a little easier looking down at it.

He starts at the top with Aaron Adams. They were desk partners for sophomore year biology.

He works his way down.

*

Lucy Chu giggles into the receiver in an odd intermittent rhythm, about three beats behind whatever Brendon said trying to be funny, but she tells Brendon about a house party in a neighborhood not too far from the school and even offers to give him a ride.

She’s not quite what Brendon remembers from back when they were in 8th grade band together, hair smoother and laugh lighter, but she cracks jokes about their old teacher as if it’s totally normal for him to call her up four years later.

“I’d say we could just skip the party but my mom is sort of strict,” she tells him as they pull up near the curb of the house party. There are much fewer drunks puking into the bushes than the movies had told him. Apart from a low hum of music inside and a lack of parking on the block, Brendon would be hard pressed to identify which house had the party.

“Thanks for picking me up,” Brendon says, fumbling with his seatbelt through his sweaty hands. He wipes them on his jeans furtively as Lucy comes around the car but she doesn’t try to hold hand or anything, just quirks her brows at his backpack with a sort of question in them. “Oh, right,” he says and lets the straps slide off his shoulders onto the passenger seat. “Sorry. Habit, I guess.”

He tries not to feel so stripped bare as she locks her car and leads him up to the front door.

The party isn’t like the movies at all. There’s more games involved first of all and way less people. Lucy gets hollers at cheerfully by about a dozen people as she walks in and Brendon trails after her and tries not to boggle his eyes at the beer pressed casually into his hands.

He sits next to her on a couch as she talks to her friends and feels the bottle get warm but no less full between his palms. He goes up stairs and washes his hair in the sink sneaking shampoo from whoever owns this place and scrubbing down under his clothes with a washcloth. He does it all quick and when he’s done Lucy smiles at him when he asks for her keys and gets his bag out of the car and Brendon tries not to let himself sigh too obviously when the familiar weight settles against his shins as he sits back down beside her.

It’s a relatively chill party and Brendon might even be interested in experiencing it all except that he hasn’t slept barely at all the night before and finds himself dozing on the couch with his face in the pillows.

When he wakes up the party is over and there’s no one on the couch but a guy he doesn’t recognize who looks too stoned out of his mind to open his eyes as Brendon stands. He puts his backpack on his shoulders and wanders around the house looking for Lucy but he doesn’t find her. He even pokes his head out the door, but that’s when he finds most of the cars are gone and he doesn’t remember what hers looks like.

The stoned guy doesn’t open his eyes when Brendon sits back down on the couch, or even when he hesitantly lays down and tucks his feet up. Brendon’s eyes close before too long and he’s aware distantly of people moving around him a little later, of lights turning off and the last of the music fading, but no one bothers him.

When he wakes in the morning, stoned guy laughs at the creases on his cheeks from the couch cushion and calls him a light weight. It’s his house it turns out—well, he’s one of many roommates whose house it is, apparently most of Lucy’s friends graduated last year—but he doesn’t seem to mind Brendon monopolizing his couch for the night.

“Lucy bailed around midnight,” he says when Brendon asks. “She was pretty wasted. I think she got a ride with a friend. Sort you got ditched man.”

Brendon isn’t sorry. He’s thinking that he’s just slept for a full night and that the previously stoned guy has made him a cup of coffee and just laughed and waved at him when he’d asked to take a shower.

“Fucking knock yourself out little dude.”

So Brendon had even gotten clean out of the situation. He puts the guy’s number—Mark, no last name given—into his phone and thanks him profusely for the coffee and makes his way to the bus stop to be only a little late for first period.

He feels human for a moment, with clean skin and caffeine. He feels like he’s learning.

He texts Lucy during lunch and thanks her for the party and then carefully copies down his entire address book onto paper that day after school. The end of the month is coming. He needs to be prepared.

*

He manages to find a couch to crash on every night that week, even returning back to Mark’s for one night when Lucy asks to hang out. He won’t get his first pay check for another week but the tips at the smoothie shop are surprisingly okay and he takes home a little pile of one dollar bills after each shift that he carefully squirrels away into an envelope he shoves into the back of his school locker.

It’s quickly becoming apparent that Brendon needs an actual plan if he’s going to make it through the school year. He’s already onto the “M”s in his contact list by the time the weekend rolls around and eventually people are going to notice that he’s been cycling through the same six dirty shirts and three pairs of jeans. Plus, Brendon is discovering how much he misses the feeling of clean socks and eating food that doesn’t come in a wrapper.

But the weekend brings a more pressing concern—namely band practice and Brendon’s lack of guitar. That Friday he walks the familiar route to home after the school library closes, but doesn’t get any closer than the end of the block when he sees his dad’s car in the driveway. It makes his heart go sort of crazy just being that close already, like one of the neighbors is going to spot him or his mom is going to look out the window or someone will suddenly appear and shriek about him loitering on the sidewalk where he doesn’t belong.

He’ll come back on Sunday, he decides, turning quickly from his old house and scurrying back towards the school. There’s a football game tonight and Brendon’s pretty sure he’ll be able to find some sort of party to crash at that doesn’t involve too many football players directly.

Instead, what he finds is Brent looking happy to see him while draping himself around a girl Brendon vaguely knows as his girlfriend, Christie. They hang out at the top of the bleachers and Brendon only feels a little like a third wheel, but Brent grinning at him again in a way that’s easy and not awkward and Brendon is trying hard not to mess up the one thing he has to look forward too by being rude and leaving early.

When Brent and Christie leave the game is over and Brendon hasn’t found a place to crash yet. That’s okay though, because he’s thought about what he’ll do since the last time this happened. He’d talked to Mark about UNLV and college life and apparently there’s 24/7 libraries on campus. It takes two busses to get onto the university campus and about half an hour of wandering around before Brendon feels confident enough to enter one of the libraries.

There’s a booth set up a little ways inside where they’re checking IDs, but the front lobby is full of desks and chairs and a little coffee shop and Brendon gets a table with a bench seat in a corner and manages to fall asleep with his head leaned up against the wall.

He doesn’t sleep all the way through the night like that. At some point, he wanders up and buys a drink and then takes out a notebook from inside his backpack and pretends to be working like the actual college students around him.

No one bothers him though or suddenly rats him out as the imposter he is and he catches his sleep in hour long bursts between getting up to use the bathroom and stretch his legs and ordering hot chocolate from the barista.

He’s heard that there are actual study nooks inside the library where he might be able to find enough privacy to sleep for real, but Brendon wasn’t counting on the ID problem. The library isn’t much better than sitting in Dennys for a night, but it does feel warm and safe and studious and that at least lulls him to sleep long enough he doesn’t feel like complete trash when morning finally comes.

He catches the two busses back to his side of town for his morning shift at Smoothie Hut, laughs and sings along with Chloe when good songs come on, and takes his tips for the day to the local park where he lays down in the grass for a while and sleeps until the shadows get long.

That night, he does manage to find another couch to crash on (Ricky Montoya, English 10A, not church going) and gets served home cooked eggs for breakfast before going to work again.

He’s got this narrow window between his shift finishing and the start of band practice to hop on yet another bus towards his parents’ house. It’s Sunday, and they _should_ be at church until at least 3pm, but that doesn’t stop him from almost sweating out of his shift as he walks up the empty driveway and slowly jiggles the door.

It’s locked. Brendon pulls out his house key and holds his breath as he puts it into the lock. There’s a click and then the door swings open and Brendon tries not to cry a little bit when he walks through the threshold and back into his home.

“Mom?”

There’s no answer, of course. The silence of the house is oppressive. It bears down on Brendon like the blue of Big Brother’s eye, pushing on him until he walks on tip toes and doesn’t feel like he takes a breath until he’s up in his room and closing the door behind him.

His rooms is…they haven’t touched his room yet. All his stuff is just there, right where he left it. When he opens his closet his dirty clothes have been washed and folded neatly into his drawers and the thought of his mom in her cleaning up after him when he’s not even welcome to step through the door makes some sort of pit open in his stomach.

He takes a duffle bag from the garage and empties out his drawers, finding his school books on his desk and shoving them back into his backpack where they belong. His iPod is uncharged but in his desk drawer where he’d forgotten it. He never knew how much of being— of not having a home is just being bored. He even takes the first Harry Potter (his favorite) and some old classic from his bookshelf and shoves it in, even though he’s never been much of a reader.

In the bathroom, he finds a Costco pack of toothpaste with two left inside and takes that plus a bar of soap and some razors. He doesn’t have to shave often, but it’s enough that he’s been sort of splotchy for the past few days.

When his duffle bag is full he sneaks down to his parent’s bedroom and tip toes into their closet where they keep the important documents. He finds his birth certificate and his social and puts them both into a plastic baggy from the kitchen. That takes some stress away. He’ll be able to turn those into his work now without hassle.

Finally, he looks guiltily between his two guitars, the acoustic his parents got him when he was twelve and the electric he bought for himself just last year. He can’t bring them both. He knows which one the band will be expecting but he can’t manage the amp for his electric and his duffle bag. He’ll have to leave it.

When he stands with everything on his back and his guitar in his hand his room looks almost the same as before. He doubts his parents will even notice he’s been there, not unless there’s more laundry of his for his mom to put away. They’d never cared much for his music before to miss the second guitar.

He locks the house back up and scurries quickly down the sidewalk, or as quickly as he can with a lot more weight on him.

There’s a part of him that drags as he walks away. The tired part of him that’s sure if he just sits down on the front porch and cries his parents will take one look at him when they come home and fix everything. But Brendon doesn’t really believe that. Can’t really believe that.

He keeps walking; keeps walking and turns his thoughts to the band, _his_ band, the one thing in the world he might actually get to keep if he doesn’t fuck things up.

It’s enough to get him back on the bus, and through the realization he’s got no more excuses to ever go home again.

*


	3. Chapter 3

“Sorry, man. I talked with the other guys. We’ve got too many people already, you know?”

Brendon nods, because what else is he supposed to do? He’s been crashing on Mark’s couch on and off for two weeks, with and without Lucy’s company. He knew it was a long shot when he asked if they had space for another roommate. He doesn’t know why disappointment is sinking in his gut.

“No, I get it,” he says quickly. He doesn’t want to come off as ungrateful. Not if he wants to be able to make use of Mark’s couch in the future. “Let me know if anything changes in the spring though, yeah?”

“Sure, man. Oh hey, you’ll be eighteen by then, right? Some of the guys were asking.”

Brendon gathers up his backpack and guitar from where they’ve been tucked in a tidy stack beside the couch and doesn’t really answer. He’s been getting good at doing that. Like dodging the questions of the librarian who’d caught him sleeping between the aisles after school. It’s as easy as getting out fast and staying away long enough for him to drop from people’s thoughts.

A family of pumpkins leer at him from Mark’s front porch as he steps out. They were carved too early and are wilting, wicked grins turning mushy and old. He walks away from them swiftly, hood pulled up against an early afternoon breeze.

He thinks of this time last year. He remembers begging his mom to take him to the Halloween shop at the mall, not because the costumes were _good_ or anything but just to fill up on the spirit window shopping. When his sisters were still at home, they’d monopolize the couch watching cheesy Disney movies and gorging on sweets. None of them were very good with horror and their parents didn’t believe in parties. It didn’t matter. He’d get his kicks inventing the best voices to answer the door for trick-or-treaters, picking out the best pieces of candy to hoard for himself for later.

It makes him ache somewhere in his chest when he thinks of these things though, so he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to ruin it. Doesn’t want to let the loss turn his past into some painful thing.

So he’s trying keenly not to lose his love of October. It’s just harder than he thought not to let it get to him that his thick jacket is beginning not to feel so thick at night.

*

The janitor unlocks the school doors at 7am. It takes two busses to get there if he spends the night at the university, one if he crashes with Mark, and usually less if he finds someone willing to put him up that goes to his school. His contact list is running a bit dry though, so Brendon’s been trying to save those phone numbers for emergencies. He’s thinking he might need them when winter sets in, which is such a weird thought to have in the middle of the desert. Las Vegas never felt cold until night set in and he had nowhere for him to go.

The point is, if Brendon wakes up at 6am, he can usually catch a bus early enough to be at school right when the janitor opens it up. If he does that, he can get a bathroom all to himself long enough to brush his teeth and run soap and water of his head and change.

He’d ditched his duffle bag just two days after his trip back home. The strap had dug into his shoulder and made him look just a bit too much like the guys pushing carts near the freeway. If he carries his school books in his backpack, he can fit most of his clothes and toiletries inside his locker instead. He doesn’t look weird lugging around just his backpack and guitar.

Okay, so maybe he’d look even more normal if he left his guitar in the band room, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. So what if it’s a bit odd when he walks around the mall with his guitar case? It’s better than _not_ having it. Besides, it gives him something to do when he’s out of homework and milling around a park or on the playground after the library closes.

The quiet mornings at school might be Brendon’s favorite part of the day. Things feel secure tucked away behind his combination lock. He stuffs his tips from work into an envelope at the bottom of the pile, keeping only what he has to for food in his backpack.

He’s doing okay, Brendon reassures himself. He’s been keeping his head down, working on his homework in the library after school and generally keeping to himself. He still sometimes eats with Brent in the cafeteria when he has too, but the school lunches are on an electronic system that’s paid by the month and Brendon doesn’t want to have to explain why he’s suddenly switching to cash. It’s not like it’s really a hardship to wait until after school to eat anyway. He’s always been skinny. He can get what he needs from the dollar menu on his way to work and spend less money that way.

He spends a lot of time in the band room too. Mr. Winters doesn’t care if he hangs out during lunch. Sometimes he really does practice, but mostly he finds a corner in one of the tiny practice rooms and naps. He’s tired and he’s not even totally sure why. So much of his time is just sitting in class or the library, or walking around town wasting time, or at work. He’s bored and restless at the same time. Fidgety but with no great outlet.

He realizes he misses talking to people. 

Lucy tries. They spend a week after that first party having small conversations in the hallways, but it peters out after a few days. Spending so much time with her makes Brendon nervous in a way he’s been trying to avoid. All these old emotions in Brendon stir up when he’s with her he just doesn’t have the energy to deal with.

After Mark invites him back for a video game night without mentioning Lucy, he stops trying altogether. He feels bad, like he’s used her, and probably he has. But it isn’t like that matters anymore. Brendon’s won’t be going back to Mark’s for a while. Not until the refusal dies down. Half the reason he’d gotten the courage to ask to rent was because Mark’s roommates started making jokes about him living there that were only half-said jokingly.

So school is something of Brendon’s home base now, even if it’s a lonely one. For eight hours a day he’s just another student—longer if he stretches his time in the library. The rumor mill might be churning, but not one’s got a clue what’s _actually_ wrong with him.

And if the school is his home base, then the band might just be his happy place.

*

He gets a pumpkin spice latte on his way to band practice that Sunday.

It’s not in his budget, he knows, but as much as the rational side of him screams that every penny from his job needs to be tucked away for future rent, it’s hard sometimes to remember when he’s been running on bursts of sleep in two hour increments. He’s spent the past few nights after Mark’s let down giving him space by camping at the university library. He’s tired and has been nursing a low-level headache since just past midnight. Besides, his fingers were cold.

Ryan, of course, purses his lips the second he opens the door. “Seriously?”

“You don’t like pumpkin spice?” Brendon tries, shifting his weight on Spencer’s welcome mat. There are pumpkins on the porch here too, but their faces are more surprised than leering.

Despite them being in a band for almost a month how, Brendon is still not entirely sure how to interact with Ryan Ross. Brendon likes people. He likes talking to them and listening to them and usually thinks he’s pretty good at it. Maybe not recently, but in general he’d say he’s a social person. Yet Ryan moves away like he’s been burned whenever Brendon steps too close to some invisible circle he’s drawn around his space. It’s like he runs cooler that harder and harder Brendon tries to impress him. Brendon’s been turning himself down more and more, talking less, keeping to a single spot out of Ryan’s orbit. He’s trying to be on his best behavior. He really is. All this tiptoeing around though is leaving him tripping over knots tied in his own tongue.

“I was talking about the fact that you’re late,” says Ryan. “Again.”

“What? No. I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” says Ryan. “You’ve missed almost an hour already.”

Brendon knows the city bus schedule by heart now. He knows when they’re late and when they’re not. He’d gotten on the same one he always does after work on Sundays. He’s even a little early, he’s pretty sure.

“Oh, hey man,” Spencer says, coming up behind Ryan in the doorway. His face is pink and flushed, like he’s been working out—or practicing. Brendon’s stomach drops. “I didn’t think you were going to make it. Come in.”

He draws Ryan back, letting Brendon step through the threshold and awkwardly maneuver his guitar through the gap. Brendon checks his wristwatch, something he’s just picked up but has been relying on more and more.

“It’s not even five,” he says. “I’m fifteen minutes early.”

Ryan and Spencer exchange a look. Ryan scoffs, turning his back and walking towards their practice space in Spencer’s garage. Spencer turns back to Brendon apologetically.

“I have to babysit tonight,” Spencer explains. “We bumped practice up to four. I sent out an text?”

Brendon’s eyes widen. “Oh. Oh shit. Sorry. I was at work.”

“You have a job?” Spencer asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, at the Smoothie Hut near the mall. I totally missed your message. My bad.”

“It’s fine,” Spencer smiles. He opening the garage door door and gestures Brendon to be the first in. Ryan looks up from where he’s draped his guitar back over his neck, the wrinkle on his forehead telling Brendon clearly that his tardiness has not been forgiven.

“I told you he doesn’t read his text messages,” Ryan says, apparently having caught the tail end of their exchange.

Brendon’s phone is currently sitting dead somewhere at the bottom of his locker. He ran out of minutes two weeks ago, when the month turned. It’s about as good to him as a rock. “Yeah, uh. Parents confiscated it. Sorry.”

“What. Again?” This remark comes from Brent, sitting on a plastic chair and looking up as they troop in. The fuzz from his shitty amp cuts off as he palms his bass strings and stares at Brendon. “Don’t tell me they’re still mad at you? I thought you said they got over it.”

“Oh, uh, no,” Brendon says, quickly getting into his spot to the right of Ryan’s mic and squatting down with his guitar case. “It was for something else.”

Brent shakes his head. “Man, you’re way more trouble than you look, you know that? It’s always the freaky religious ones.”

Brendon laughs awkwardly. Spencer socks Brent casually in the arm as he walks over to his drum kit. “Don’t be a dick.”

“What? It’s a fact! Dude is religious.”

“No really, Brent,” says Spencer, “Keep going.” He’s serving Brent a deep look from under his hooded eyes, the kind of impressive guard dog expression that Brendon’s is absurdly grateful to be the cause of. At least someone in the band has warmed up to him.

“It’s fine,” he says, fiddling with the latches on his case, eyes glued to a chip in the gold varnish. “I’m sort of taking a break from the church right now.”

“What. Really?”

Brendon glances up. He was expecting that remark from Brent, or maybe even Spencer, but it is Ryan he finds looking down at him.

Brendon swallows, mouth suddenly dry. “Yeah. I’m just, uh, figuring some stuff out right now.”

He winces at how that sounds. It’s too close to the truth. A spark of _something_ flashes on Ryan’s face. It looks almost like understanding.

Brendon refocuses on getting out his instrument. He can feel the others’ eyes on him as he finally opens his case, but he doesn’t want to see what their faces are doing. He’s tired of being looked at.

As ever, the sight of the clean, polished wood of his guitar makes something tight in Brendon’s chest ease. He picks it up by the neck gently, slipping the strap over his head and standing with the familiar weight of it against him. He runs his nails over the strings and feels like he can breathe for the first time all week.

His fingers stretch over the frets, running through his favorite chords — _Am, Em, F, C,_ back to _Em._ The chords hum through his head without him even hitting the strings. He sways for a second like that, head down, eyes slipped closed, not feeling the ache in his feet from work this morning or the lingering chill in his fingertips. The stain on his tongue from the coffee tastes sweet.

“Hey.”

Brendon opens his eyes. Ryan Ross hovers in front of him, guitar over his neck, strap nestled into the folds of his sweatshirt. He’s got this pair of giant brown eyes. They remind Brendon of a baby sometimes with how they stare at everything, wide and obvious and dull. Not dull like he’s stupid, but like the rest of the world is.

“I’m in tune,” Ryan says, picking his low E string. “Match me?”

Brendon looks away from those eyes and bows over his guitar strings. They get to it.

*

Band practice that night ends all too early. They barely make it through their catalogue of blink and Green Day covers before Spencer’s mom is knocking at the door saying that it’s time for his friends to go. They don’t even get to play with the few original ideas they’ve been toying with. The plucky melody that’s been itching at Brendon’s fingertips for over a week festers just under his skin like an itchy blister.

It’s a Sunday which means it’s a quiet night. No parties happen on Sundays. Even before striking out at Mark’s, Brendon has been spending these kinds of nights back at the university library. It isn’t convenient, but no one’s bothered him so far.

He makes it all the way down the block before he realizes there’s another set of footsteps behind him. When he pauses, just long enough to look back, Ryan falls into step beside him.

“Hey,” says Ryan simply. He slows down when Brendon stumbles, which tells Brendon he means to actually walk with him. _Why?_ Brendon has no idea.

Usually Ryan stays with Spencer after practice ends. Apparently they’ve known each other since they were kids. It makes sense that Ryan would live in the neighborhood, Brendon supposes. Ryan graduated from high school last year and lives in dorms at the college, but maybe he comes home on the weekends.

Brendon wonders what Ryan’s home is like. If he gets those giant brown eyes from his mother or his father. If he has any siblings that speak in that same slow, almost monotone drawl. He wonders what bands Ryan has up on his walls or if his room is covered in bookshelves and personal pictures.

He thinks about what it must be like to live in a dorm, away from parents and family but stuck in a tiny room with one other dude going through the exact same transition as you.

It sounds nice.

Brendon turns his head, giving Ryan a sideways glance only long enough to take in the way Ryan is somehow not sweaty at all despite the way he’d been wailing on his guitar for the past hour. Brendon’s got sweat soaked bangs hanging in his own eyes he scrubs back irritably. He _loves_ band practice but he hates not having access to a shower afterwards.

“So, did you need something…or something?” Brendon asks. He hates how hesitant he sounds, but he also knows Ryan doesn’t like him much. Ryan is one of three people who has the very real ability to take away the one thing Brendon has right now that makes him feel truly happy. He can’t risk offending any of them.

“Yes, actually,” Ryan says. He stops walking, causing Brendon to reluctantly stop too.

“Okay.” Brendon rocks back on his heals, putting some space between them. “What’s up?”

“Spencer and I were talking. We want to schedule more practices.”

Brendon smiles before he can stop it. “Really?”

Ryan frowns. “I want this to be a serious band. Spencer and I have been wanting to do this since we were kids. We’ve been trying to get the right people together for a while. Brent’s agreed to two more nights a week. I get that this is more than what you signed up for when you joined so if you can’t make the same commitment—”

“No!” Brendon shouts. “No. I’m in.”

Ryan startles, then glares something vicious at him. Brendon winces.

“Sorry,” he says, strangling his excitement back down. “I am _so_ in though,” he insists. “What days? What times? I’ve got work, but I can totally schedule around it. Probably. I’ll definitely ask. Chloe’s cool though. That’s my manager. She’ll probably let me move things around. I already volunteered for the weekend morning shifts so that’s, like, a million brownie points. This is so rad, man. I’m so excited. What days is it again?”

It’s only when Ryan blinks at him that Brendon realizes he’s been rambling. He runs a hand through his damp bangs again, shoving them up off his face. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I totally cut you off. I talk too much. I know. It’s a bad habit. Sorry. Uh, what were you saying?”

“That was basically it,” Ryan says after a pause, still looking at Brendon with a small frown. “You weren’t returning any messages. We weren’t sure you’d agree to more days.”

“Oh,” Brendon says again, feeling more and more like an idiot.

“To be completely honest,” Ryan continues. “I was pretty sure you’d ditched us today before you showed up an hour late.”

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Brendon stammers. “It was a mistake. I wouldn’t do that.”

Ryan shrugs, not saying anything. It’s not the reassuring surge of denial Brendon was hoping for. He nods, swallowing, trusting that better than trying to speak.

They stand awkward on the sidewalk, facing each other but both their eyes turned away. Their shadows stretch long and stiff on the pavement, much like the conversation. Brendon waits for Ryan to make the next move—to change his mind, to decide that actually no, Brendon wasn’t welcome back for the next practice. When he finally manages to glance over though Ryan is just standing there gazing down the street, brown hair blowing around in his face.

“So, was that it?” Brendon finally asks.

“Guess so.”

“So…you’ll email me about the other days?”

“If you actually answer your messages, yeah.”

Brendon accepts the jab with another wince, and nods. He guesses he deserves that. “I will. I’m sorry about that. Just—email me, okay? I don’t know when I’ll have a phone again.”

“Sure.” Ryan actually looks back at him then, stare assessing. “You’re really in that much trouble?”

Ryan has no idea.

“Yeah,” Brendon admits.

“Is it about the church thing?”

Brendon shrugs. Maybe it _was_ about the church, but not the way Ryan is probably thinking. He’d never protested going to church before he’d left. It was just something his family did, like going grocery shopping or to swimming lessons. It wasn’t a choice any more than school was a choice. It didn’t really matter how Brendon felt about it.

Ryan stares at him critically for a moment, like he’s going to press, but he doesn’t. “Okay. Well, that’s all I had to say. We’ll email you I guess.”

“Thanks.”

As they begin to walk again, still heading in the same direction, Brendon has this weird urge to pull Ryan to a stop again. He wants to talk more, to clear the air between them, to waste some time at least before he has to get back onto the bus and pretend to be someone with somewhere to go. At the same time, when he looks over at Ryan it’s like there is this invisible barrier between them. Brendon doesn’t know who put it up—him or Ryan—only that it seems like he’s beating himself against it it with every conversation they have. It’s the first time he’s felt Ryan has ever gotten close to knocking back.

At the end of the block, Brendon sits down at the bus stop while Ryan turns at the corner, heading down the next street with a two fingered wave at Brendon.

Brendon watches him go until he’s gone. Then he stares a little longer, eyes drying up but not blinking, caught with his chin in that direction until the world turns blurry.

When the bus arrives, he catches sight of his face in one of the windows. There’s this look in his eyes—dull and worn. Like maybe something from Ryan has rubbed off on him.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like it, let me know. We're a small enough fandom that every comment feels extra special.


	4. Chapter 4

Sometimes, Brendon lets himself picture it.

Ryan is sitting on his bed, guitar over his lap, strumming softly as the last light of a sunset drenches him in liquid gold. There’s a smile on Ryan’s face like Spencer just walked in the room, but it’s Brendon at the doorway. The air is warm and Ryan’s eyes shine in the fading sunlight and Brendon wears his favorite soft pajamas against clean skin. His body feels so light he clings to the door frame so he won’t float away.

When he crosses the room he’s on the bed with Ryan and they’ve both got guitars now. The bed is warm and soft under him and they’re laying down and playing at the same time. It reminds him of those old black and white pictures of Lennon and McCartney. It’s a thought painted in sepia and muffled in static. Ryan is humming, except then Brendon opens his eyes and it’s his mom sitting beside him on the bed. She’s got her hair tucked behind her ears and Brendon is in his own bed in his own room and it must be a holiday because he can hear his whole family moving around in the house around him.

He knows even then that it’s a dream. He’s just awake enough for the fantasy to ring hollow. And just that split-second acknowledgment of the dream is enough to rip him from it. The picture fades into the blackness of his eyelids. His comes back into his body and the sticky press of his cheek against the restaurant booth. He doesn’t open his eyes.

He tries to scrape back the pieces of that dream. He’s sitting on a bed. No, he’s lying down on it. He can’t remember if he has a pillow or not. His neck is stiff from leaning against the booth. He imagines himself a pillow under his head, but the crick in his real neck doesn’t go away. Okay. Maybe he’s not in his bed. Maybe he’s sitting against it on the floor.

In his fantasy, the door opens, but Brendon can’t pick who is on the other side. His mom, insists his inner monologue fiercely. Of course it’s his mom. Why would he even think of anyone else there?

Brendon shifts. The skin of his cheek stings as it peels away from the booth. He’s in an Ihop, he thinks. It’s late but the other tables are buzzing. He’d come here because he’d seen it down the street from his work and thought it’d be easier than riding the bus all the way to the university. Attached to some hotel, it’s open all night. Brendon had been seated when it had gotten too dark to be outside.

Brendon squeezes his eyes shut tighter. Sleep. He’d been trying to dream, but he _needs_ to sleep. He has a test in math in the morning and there’s band practice in the afternoon—or is it work? It’s definitely one of the two. He hasn’t had a night free from either in over a week. And it’s good. He’s glad. He’s ecstatic about it, in fact. He’s just also a bit tired. He’s a little worn down from there being so much to do and having to travel all around town to get there. He just needs to sleep.

He’s sitting in his bedroom…

For a moment, the noise doesn’t register amidst the other background chatter. Then it comes again, louder and closer. It resolves itself into words. A thin voice calling sternly, “Sir. Excuse me? Sir.”

His eyes squint open. The blackness of the parking lot outside the window is the only dim thing in view. He blinks at the blurry reflection of his own face in the glass before he turns. Two waitresses in matching blue shirts stand guard at the end of his table.

“I’m sorry. You can’t sleep here, sir. Would you like me to make your plate to go?”

Brendon peels himself away from the booth. His neck doesn’t want to straighten, but he makes it. It twinges in protest at the sudden change. He fights of the vestiges of sleep from his eyes to make sense of what’s happening.

“Sorry. I—It’s okay. I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I’m awake now.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the second waitresses says, and her face really is apologetic. “My manager has asked that you leave. We can give you a box for your meal before you go?”

“Oh.” Brendon blinks again, hard. The edges of the world are still blurred around him. He pinches himself under the table until the needle-like pain shocks his eyelids up. His hands jitter, almost tingling in the fingertips as he bobs his head. “Okay. Yeah. Okay, that’s fine. Sorry. A box would be great.”

The other waitress holds out her hand. Her face is less forgiving. “You need to pay before you go.”

Brendon burns. He’s hot, almost feverish, in his embarrassment. Neither waitress moves as he carefully digs out his tips from his earlier shift and counts out his meal. It’s only after he’s hurried out the restaurant door that he realizes the three dollar tip he’d just left also contained his bus fare.

Brendon can’t just turn around. He can’t exactly ask for the money back. He walks as quickly as he can until he reaches the next block. Then he slows down only because he realizes he doesn’t know where he’s going.

When he holds his wristwatch up to a streetlamp it tells him the time is just past midnight. Too late for a phone call, if he could even scrounge up the change.

Brendon looks back down the street. He’s close to the mall and his work. It’s familiar territory at least, though the business sector is all closed down. In the passing lights of the cars the gaps between the store fronts yawn like they’re hiding teeth. Brendon has this flash of himself squatting in one of those alleys, dirty and cold but sleeping. He blinks and realizes he’s stopped walking. That’s he’s actually staring at the dumpster parked behind an Applebees.

Brendon swallows through a suddenly dry mouth. He forces himself to walk away, quickly, legs pumping and head down until he begins to sweat. He can’t—He _won’t_ be that person. He won’t be that cliche.

He walks on. There has to be something better. Brendon has to believe there’s something better.

*

Except, there really is no such thing. No couch miraculously appears before him. His dead phone does not miraculously ring. No library corner or fold-out bed arrives to rescue him. There’s just the closed down line of shops of the strip mall and the buzz of passing cars. Brendon doesn’t know. He just doesn’t know where to go. He tries and he tries wracking his head but he just can’t think of a single viable option. The only alternative idea he can scrounge up is trying not to sleep, which doesn’t feel all that better at all.

He sits at a bus stop because it is the one thing that’s familiar. When he sits down though, he wants to sleep so badly it terrifies him. He’s got his guitar with him and every time he closes his eyes he thinks he feels its weight sudden disappear from behind his ankles. It’s like a falling dream but worse. He snaps out of it with a lurch in his gut, thrown off balance by his his book-ladened when he jolts back to consciousness.

So he sits in twenty minute increments, getting up and walking down the sidewalk until the cold air drills into his cheeks deep enough that his eyes stay open. At some point, Brendon looks around and realizes he’s walked for three blocks straight without noticing and has to turn around again before he loses the bus stop. His nose is cold. His fingers are fucking freezing. He needs a thicker coat.

When morning breaks, Brendon is sick from the lack of sleep. He has a sour stomach and a sour mouth and every inch of his body feels stretched and clammy. He just wants to get to school and rinse off in the sink. He wants a shower.

At the bus stop, he sits patiently with his wrist crammed through the narrow handle of his guitar case, like an anchor. Only, it’s just as he’s watching the first bus turn the corner that he remembers he has no money. His savings are all in his locker at school. He doesn’t have what he needs to get on. He gets up and hurries away from the approaching bus before the driver can recognize him. He doesn’t want the questions.

It’s a long walk to school after that. The soles of his feet and his knees are throbbing from a night spent pacing the concrete before he even begins. What takes half an hour on bus turns into a ninety minute trek across town. He’s sweating through his coat by the time he steps on the parking lot, just in time to hear the first bell ring.

He can’t brush his teeth. He can’t even splash water on his face before he blinks and suddenly the second bell is sounding too.

His school day passes like this, flashing by in short stops and bursts. In English, he doesn’t realizes he’s forgotten to get out his textbook until he’s sitting there with the whole class looking at him waiting on him to read. In math he doesn’t even get that far. The fluorescent lights are drilling into his skull, bouncing off the crisp white sheets of his test and directly into the headache budding behind his eyes. Everything is so quiet and the classroom is so warm and he puts his head down after five questions to rest his eyes and can’t lift it again until after the bell.

And then school is over. Brendon doesn’t remember any of it. All he knows is that his eyes are burning and his head is pounding and his mouth tastes like something died behind his teeth. He’s disgusting and slimy under the same clothes he wore yesterday. He’s kept his jacket zipped to the throat in case anyone noticed, but that just makes him too hot. He really hates the weather. How can the same city that leaves him overheating in the daytime have him too cold to feel his fingers at night? It’s just not fair.

He shuffles back to his locker and apologizes to his grades when he exchanges his textbooks for two long-sleeve shirts, an extra hoodie, several pairs of socks, and—after hemming and hawing for several long minutes—half of the money from the hidden at the bottom envelope. It’s a little over two-hundred dollars, about two weeks worth of work, minus his tips. His hands prickle just sliding that amount of money into the bottom of his backpack, but he never wants to run out of cash like last he did night again. And there’s—he’s got this fantasy stuck in his head that there has to be at least one shady hotel in Vegas that might rent to a minor. One night in a real bed. He thinks if he could just get one night in a real bed he’d bounce back, like he always has. One night is all he’s asking for.

Except that as he’s walking out of school towards the bus stop he passes by a Starbucks and something catches him. There’s this guy outside. The guy is not asking for change, not really doing anything, just sitting on the curb nearby being obviously homeless. And he’s got a giant bag at his feet and this bend in his back that Brendon feels in his own spine and Brendon stops right there on the sidewalk staring at this man that every single other person on the street is pretending doesn’t exist.

The guy must sense eyes on him or something because their gazes meet. Brendon and this homeless guy outside of the Starbucks. And the guy opens his mouth like he’s about to say something and Brendon turns abruptly and walks right through the jangling doors, like somehow walking through those doors means the man doesn’t exist and Brendon doesn’t have to think about him. Brendon can still walk into a Starbucks and order and it’s fine because he has money. He has a job. He has. That’s the point. He has.

Except that Brendon’s world is still moving like a stop motion film. All of the sudden he’s at the front of the line and shrugging off the straps of his backpack at the counter and the girl behind it isn’t smiling at him as he digs through the clothes until he finds the wad of cash even though she’s wearing a green apron and it’s her job to pretend to be nice to him.

“Can I get a Pumpkin Spice Latte please?” Brendon asks, wrapping his fingers around the wad of money as though it isn’t searing. “Uh, hot. And, um, a slice of banana bread.”

The girl looks at the contents of his backpack spewing onto her counter and back up at him. “What size?”

“Large. Uh, venti. Whatever. And actually can I get four of them? Hot. To go.”

“Four hot venti PSLs and a slide of banana bread,” she repeats bored and rings him up.

Then she reads out his total and Brendon fists over a twenty and a ten and then stands back as she’s making his order trying to breathe because he’s just done the math and that is over three hours of work he just spent on coffee. Three hours of work. And he only gets between sixteen and twenty hours a week thanks to school. And he just fucking blew it on four coffees and dessert.

He can stand that thought for only a minute and then it builds up too much inside him. He gets back into line, rocking side to side impatiently as the two people ahead of him order. The barista’s mouth pinches when he’s in front of her counter again.

“Yes?”

“Sorry. Can I actually cancel that? Uh, the coffees. Can I just get the one? Sorry.”

She eyes him a second before glancing to the side. “Your drinks are already being made.”

“Oh. Right. Of course,” Brendon nods. Except, he just spent almost thirty dollars on coffee and that’s not alright. That’s actually not okay at all. He says, “Can I just cancel the banana bread then?”

“You can’t return food items.”

“But you haven’t given it to me yet.”

“It’s being heated.”

“Can’t you just take it out?”

“No.”

“I haven’t touched it. It’s not like it’s been contaminated or anything.”

“I’m sorry,” the barista says, but her voice doesn’t say that at all. “I can get you my manager if you’d rather speak to him.”

Brendon shakes his head, shamed face. Thirty-dollars. He’s just wasted almost thirty-dollars on crap.

He sees the barista whisper something to her co-worker as Brendon retreats to stand by the self-serve creamers. Both their eyes flick over to him. Great.

The door jangles three more times before his name is called. He keeps his head down as he picks up his finished drinks. Thirty-dollars.

He walks out of the Starbucks in a daze. Then, gets on his bus and balances the cardboard holder on his lap and leans his head against the class and closes his eyes. Except that when he closes his eyes he realizes he doesn’t remember seeing the homeless guy when he came out of the store. He doesn’t remember. He just doesn’t remember.

And it’s driving him nuts because he doesn’t know if that’s because the guy moved on or if Brendon, like everybody else, just decided he wasn’t there.

*

“Fuck yeah! Coffee!”

Brent practically kicks over his plastic chair in his leap up to snag a coffee as Brendon walks in. Ryan rolls his eyes, but doesn’t mention the fact that Brendon is technically ten minutes late to band practice. He’s been perfectly punctual every day since that disastrous scheduling error two weeks ago. Maybe that’s earned him a little leeway. Maybe.

“Yeah, yeah, just take it,” says Brendon, holding out the drinks as Brent paws at the cardboard tray. He’s followed more sedately by Spencer, who yawns so loud his jaw actually cracks.

“Thanks. You’re a mindreader,” Spencer says, popping off the lid of his coffee and downing what has to be half of his venti in one solid chug.

“You good, man?” Brendon asks.

Spencer puts the lid back on, then rolls his neck side to side, cracking like his whole body is made of one giant glow stick. “Oh yeah. Just college apps, you know? I’m friggen drowning in them.”

Ryan glances over from where he’s messing with his microphone stand. “I told you I would help with those. You should have called me.”

Spencer laughs, stumbling back towards his drum kit. “After the ulcer you nearly gave yourself last year? I’d rather not have to take you to the ER.”

Ryan makes a face, mostly impatient but fond too. It’s teasing. “You’ve already submitted the one to UNLV. Aren’t you done yet?”

“Like my mom would let me submit just one,” Spencer says. “It’s all about the ‘back up plan’ she says. I need to have options.”

Brent snickers. “That’s nothing. My mom is making me apply to Harvard. _Harvard_. Me. Do I look like lawyer material to you?”

Brendon laughs. Actually, it bubbles out more as a giggle. He and Brent don’t actually share any classes except for band, but he’s seen enough of the mess of Brent’s backpack to get a pretty clear idea of what kind of a student Brent it.

Brent rolls his eyes. “Don’t even start. Let me guess. Is it going to be BYU or…BYU? Or are you doing the whole mission thing first?”

Brendon tries not to let the smile on his face die too obviously. The giggles do die though. He keeps his expression fixed as he shrugs his shoulders. “Oh. I dunno yet. Maybe neither?”

“Seriously?”

Brendon shrugs again. Truth be told, he wasn’t even sure about the whole college thing even before his situation changed. He’s never been good in classrooms. Too loud. Too distracted. Too much. The idea of paying for the privilege when there are plenty of jobs he can get _without_ four more years of school had always been a secret source of contention between him and his parents, secret only for the fact that Brendon brought it up exactly once over dinner and then never again.

“I don’t know,” Brendon says, shaking his head. “I don’t know. School’s not really my thing.”

“And you think it’s _mine_?”

“Maybe you have hidden depths?”

Brent snorts. Brendon seizes the lull to sidestep away from the conversation, wandering over to Ryan with the last coffee. Ryan’s done fiddling with the mic stand and is now scrolling through his phone looking bored with the lot of them. He doesn’t put it away until Brendon has stepped right up to him and then he only dims the screen long enough to glance up.

“Pumpkin Spice?” Brendon offers holding out the tray. “Unless Spencer is wrong you really do have a grudge against fun coffee.”

Ryan takes the cup, not lowering his phone. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” Brendon says because saying _no problem_ makes him want to vomit and he’s not wasting the coffee. Brendon slides the final drink out, tossing the cardboard tray towards the trashcan in the corner. He misses, but he’s sure he’ll pick it up later. Probably. The sickness in his stomach still clenches when he looks down at the cup, but as he watches Ryan take his first sip and his lips quirk up slightly Brendon raises his own to find it sweet and mostly warm on his tongue. It isn’t worth it. It isn’t worth it at all, but it almost _feels_ like it is to see the happy way the guys gear up and start playing.

Practice goes late, the way practice almost always does. Since they’ve started practicing more they’ve been sounding better. Like something of an actual band instead of just a bunch of idiots with instruments. Brent is still sort of shit on bass and Brendon misses his electric guitar like an amputated limb, but it’s easy to fall into that place where Brendon just feels the bite of the strings under his fingers and the beat of Spencer’s guitar and can push away everything else.

He closes his eyes as they get through their last few songs. The kick of the bass drum thrums through his head in hypnotic and solid. He rocks with it, arm strumming automatically, bent over his guitar and feeling the hum up in his throat as he lets himself get absolutely lost in it. He’s so damn tired. His legs ache all the way from his hips to the soles of his feet and even now he feels heavy. There’s a phantom weight on his back dragging him down, bending his spine.

Somewhere around one of the choruses the sugar from the coffee hits him. It happens like that sometimes when everything sharpens all at once and suddenly Brendon isn’t so much as swaying with the music as he is struggling not to notice everything all at once. The tension in the strings against the fret board. The slippery plastic pick between his thumb and forefinger. The dig of his strap into his shoulder. The press of clammy air on his skin.

He relishes in those tiny details. So much so it takes him several beats to notice that something is off. Drums. Bass. Guitar. Those are all going. But only for a second. The guitar drops first. Then drums cut. Finally the bass drops off.

Brendon strikes his guitar two more times before he runs into the sudden wall of silence in the garage. He opens his eyes to find Ryan staring directly at him, hands off his guitar, mic abandoned at this shoulder. Just staring at him with those ridiculous dull eyes that don’t seem so dull in this moment.

He looks—He looks—

Brendon shakes his head, blinking rapidly when the world goes blurry at the edges a moment. He pushes past it, pressing his hand into his still ringing strings to mute them. Ryan looks furious. Eye brows pulled together, mouth pursed, he’s staring at Brendon like Brendon just smothered his kitten.

“Dude!” exclaims Brent, startling Brendon so bad he very nearly trips backwards onto his ass.

Brent and Spencer are also staring at Brendon. Brent looks with this budding excitement on his face Brendon doesn’t understand. At least none of them look like they want to kill him, though, which means Brendon must have just done something to piss Ryan off this time. He can’t say he’s surprised.

He drags his reluctant gaze back to Ryan, who has drawn even closer to Brendon in the interim, head cocked and face blank.

“What?” says Brendon, unable to stand it anymore. “What? What is it?”

“You were singing again,” Ryan says. Accuses.

“Oh.” Brendon shakes his head in hopes of clearing it. He relaxes. That’s not so bad. Singing is not too bad. He gets why that would be annoying. He hadn’t even realized he’d done it.“Sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’ll stop.”

“You’ve been doing it all week.”

“What?” laughs Brendon. “No.”

“Yes. You have,” Ryan presses. “You do it every time.”

“You really do,” pipes up Spencer from behind his drums. “I mean, I can barely hear you, but you definitely are singing.”

Brendon’s face is hot. “Sorry,” he mutters.

“Sing something,” Ryan says abruptly.

“What? Why?”

“I can never hear you right under the amps,” Ryan mutters. “Come on. Sing something. I want to hear you properly.”

Brendon looks around the garage. Brent and Spencer are also gazing at him expectantly. Brent’s got this grin on his face like Ryan is making some huge joke that he’s in on but Spencer just looks sharp, attentive, watchful. Brendon’s hands tighten around the neck of his guitar as he stares between the three of them.

“What should I sing?” he asks. The most he gets back is a shrug.

Brendon ducks his head. He looks down at his fingers against the neck. His callouses had never faded. He hadn’t let them. Even now, he never let them fade.

His hands starts strumming. His fingers come to play the most intrinsic song he knows. Something old and sweet and blue. Brendon sings.

His mom used to love this song, he remembers, eyes slipping shut again. It was one of the few pieces of music they agreed to. He can still hear her voice gently humming as she tidied around the living room, drifting all the way back to Brendon in his room, stretched out on his bed, headphones on but empty.

He forgets for the moment about the garage. He’s back in that place again, in his room, and his mom is in the doorway and her hands are in his hair scraping it back from his forehead. And Brendon opens his mouth and sings louder, like maybe this time his mom will hear him. He just needs to make her look down. Look down and see him from where he’s reaching out his hand.

“Well shit.”

Brendon’s daydream breaks. It takes him several rapid blinks to clear his eyes as he lifts his head. The guys are all staring at him. All of them. And Brendon can’t read their faces.

Brendon quiets his hands on the guitar. He thinks he sang the whole song, maybe more than he was meant to. He’s having trouble remembering exactly. He’s actually still feeling a little bit dizzy, if he’s telling the truth.

“You can sing,” Spencer says, getting up from his drum kit and crossing the room like he wants to poke Brendon to prove it. “Like you can _really_ sing, Brendon.”

Brendon shrugs, smiling slightly. Good old Spencer. “I’m okay.”

“No.” Spencer shakes his head, hands raising like he’s barely containing flinging them around. “You can _really_ sing, Brendon. What the fuck?”

Almost unbidden, Brendon’s eyes flicker to Ryan. The older boy is staring back at him, expression perfectly flat. There’s a tightness in his jaw though. Something Brendon doesn’t miss.

“Ryan,” Spencer says, turning too.

“Yeah, I know,” says Ryan. He breathes out, crossing his arms as he steps back from the microphone stand. It takes him a long minute to get his next words out. “You should sing, Brendon.”

Brendon takes a step back, sure he’s misheard. “What?”

Ryan shakes his head. “You should be the singer.”

“But _you’re_ the singer.”

Ryan huffs, blowing his bangs out of his face. “You’re better than me,” he says, talking flat and quick like it doesn’t matter. “It’d be stupid not to have you do it. I’ve been listening to you for weeks. I don’t really care who sings.”

Brendon blinks rapidly at him, sure he’s missing something. Ryan says this but his face reveals nothing. Not even anger. Brendon looks around at the other guys, but Brent is grinning and nodding and Spencer has his most serious, expectant face on, like the matter is already settled.

Brendon turns back to Ryan. He shakes himself. “It’s your band,” he says, fingers clammy around the neck of his guitar. “It’s your band.”

Ryan’s dull brown eyes lock on to him. It’s another one of those moments where Brendon blinks and the world has skipped ahead. He sees Ryan nod once, like they’ve just agreed to something, and step firmly back from the microphone. “You’re singing,” he declares. “If it’s my band, I’m not wasting this.”

Then Brendon blinks and somehow he ends up reshuffled in the center where Ryan usually stands. He plucks away uncertainly at his guitar as Ryan lugs his amp over to Brendon’s old spot. He does this without grumbling, which Ryan never does. When they’re all set up, Ryan looks over to Brendon with raised eyebrows.

Brendon swallows and turns back to the mic. He wraps nervous his hands around his guitar neck and pinches his pick tight between white fingers. Then he turns and nods behind him at Spencer.

Spencer nods back and then it’s four strikes of his drum sticks and they’re playing.

Brendon closes his eyes as the first notes slip over him. The garage slips away. The eyes of his bandmates slip away.

Brendon is in his bedroom. His bed is warm and his mom is singing in the hall just outside and Brendon opens his mouth and he dreams and he sings.

*


End file.
